


At a Blind Corner

by eggshellseas



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Spanking, holmes is so totally a virgin, watson is a pushy bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggshellseas/pseuds/eggshellseas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes discovers he possesses a curious power over Watson, and that Watson is a man who still has a few secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At a Blind Corner

It was very innocently that Holmes stumbled onto this particular discovery. If he said so himself, he’d always shown remarkable restraint when it came to his companion’s privacy. Despite his ever-burning curiosity for all the things that surrounded him, he let Watson reveal himself - his past - as he saw fit, took the bits Watson shared, made his own inferences, but didn’t pry.

Once (and, again, quite innocently), in the process of appropriating one of Watson’s undershirts (Mrs. Hudson had threatened to burn all of his if he wouldn’t let her wash them), he’d come across a daguerreotype of a younger Watson with another man – both in full military dress with their arms about each other’s shoulders. There was a date and a pair of initials on the back. It was enough, though not quite easy, for Holmes to discover the strange man’s identity – a certain Lieutenant Kingsley who had been dishonourably discharged. But again, Holmes did not pry.

To return to the day of Holmes’ strange discovery was to find him at the very climax of a particularly challenging case. He had been conducting an experiment to try and deduce the method the killer was using to murder his victims. Holmes’ current theory was a slow-acting poison – a _very_ slow-acting poison. He’d been observing a mouse (brave soul, giving its life to science), tracking its symptoms, but had finally, shamefully succumbed to a light, fitful sleep in his armchair. He partially awoke when Watson (instantly recognizable to Holmes by his tread and scent) entered the room, though he kept his eyes closed. Watson’s movements suggested he did not wish to wake his friend, and Holmes did not want to disappoint him too quickly (it was one of Watson’s most fervent wishes that Holmes would get the proper amount of sleep).

As was his wont, Watson began to straighten up as best he could the clutter that Holmes left strewn across the study. Footsteps, breathing, the air current in the room – Holmes knew Watson was just in front of him to the left. Clothes rustling, exhalation – Watson was bending over. Holmes’ eyes cracked open just as Watson reached to poke the small wire cage that held the (frustratingly still living) mouse.

“Don’t touch that,” Holmes unintentionally snapped with a much more severe tone than he would normally use with his dear friend. The effect was immediate – Watson froze and then his spine went rigid as he stood up straight and stock still, his arms coming to rest at his sides.

Holmes, afraid he had offended the doctor, softened his voice and first told Watson in his confused, somnolent state he’d mistaken him for Mrs. Hudson and then began to explain what he was working on. Watson blinked as if coming out of a daze and then took the seat next to Holmes and all returned to normal as he listened with his customary interest, punctuating Holmes’ statements with intelligent questions, and, as was so often true before, Watson's medical knowledge proved invaluable.

The case was soon solved, but that peculiar episode, however, stuck in Holmes’ mind. Watson was, of course, necessarily used to Holmes’ varying moods and idiosyncrasies of character. He was a strong and self-assured man and to think that Holmes had somehow injured his feelings with a few harsh words simply did not seem likely.

And the curious acquiescence – that was what really had Holmes fixated on the issue.

There was another strand here – one that, though it was perhaps slightly distasteful, could not be ignored. It was part of the entire question. It was Holmes’ reaction to Watson’s automatic obedience – there’d been a thrill in it, an aching heat in his belly.

Holmes simply could not stop thinking about what it meant, about how he could recreate it. A week after the incident, Holmes sent Watson out on an errand and then retired to his study with his pipe to ponder, putting together the information he had at his disposal.

First, Watson, except perhaps in matters of extreme delicacy or danger, was not the type to blindly obey an imperative statement. That kind of deference, had it been so close to the surface would have made itself known quite early in their relationship. It must go deeper than that – to the tone of voice or perhaps something related to Watson’s own state of mind Second, the way his stance had changed, Holmes thought, it was as if he’d been snapping to attention. It could not be forgotten that his companion was a military man. Though it was years since Watson had served, his limp most assuredly could not be the only lasting effect. If it was indeed something trained into him, then there had to exist a trigger – almost like that of a hypnotist’s ‘spell.’

It was time, then, to gather empirical evidence.

The first trial took place at breakfast – one morning when Watson seemed unusually harried – his appointment book full of patients he had to see. Instead of taking his meal like a civilized human he shoved a piece of toast into his mouth (the crumbs, Holmes noticed, caught in his moustache), donned his coat and then started searching for his hat (Holmes _might_ have hidden it the pantry).

“Sit down,” Holmes said – a thread of steel in his voice.

Before there could have been time to think, Watson sat. His eyes widened once he realized what he’d done. Holmes smiled amiably and poured him a cup of tea. “Drink.” Watson reached for the cup, his hands trembling slightly.

Gleeful at his success, Holmes followed this with a few similar tests. He told Watson to lend him a jacket on Tuesday, to read to him aloud Wednesday evening, to roll them two cigarettes on Thursday, all while learning to perfect the authoritative pitch of his voice. It was not the most honourable thing that Holmes had ever done, to say the least, ordering Watson about. Knowing this, Holmes tried to use his knowledge altruistically over the week-end, only commanding Watson to do things that benefited his well-being – such as to stay in bed and relax on Saturday morning, but the power he suddenly possessed was still rather heady.

Oddly enough, though, the results did not remain consistent – oh, Watson continued to follow his commands, but his physical response to them began to shift. He obeyed so quickly that Holmes knew that it must be unconscious, reflexive (once, just to verify, Holmes had told Watson to bring him breakfast in bed in a normal tone of voice when Watson had come to wake him, only to have Watson scoff and rather cruelly strip him of his warm blankets), but once that synapse passed, Watson’s breath would catch and the faintest blush would stain his cheeks. Two fingers pressed beneath Watson’s collar confirmed that his pulse increased as well (the fingers, for their part, caused Watson to swallow quite audibly).

Like many of his cases, this investigation was leading him down unexpected avenues to new discoveries. It was a tacit agreement between them, that much was clear to Holmes. Watson never mentioned anything, never protested, and it spurred Holmes on to more and more daring commands

The game kept Holmes occupied in the absence of an investigation (as well, indeed, as the cocaine). Plus, it was a stimulating change to the status quo, where it was Watson who clucked and nudged Holmes about like a schoolmarm – who could quite easily bend Holmes to his will (which had nothing to do with training or triggers, Holmes would harrumph in his head every time he thought about it).

Three weeks without a case found Holmes particularly restless. Watson bought him a puzzle in the hopes of finding him even the slightest distraction; it was little comfort – Holmes finished it quite quickly and then rearranged the pieces to spell a very rude word which he then left on Watson’s desk (it was only too tragic that he couldn’t be there to see Watson splutter and try to hide it from Captain Philips).

Holmes’ only real respite from tedium was to continue to test Watson’s limits. He spent a day barking “Sit,” and “Stand,” at Watson at various intervals for his own amusement. Watson was not especially pleased with him, but still, disregarding a few glares (Holmes was _quite_ sure they were for appearance’s sake only), Watson brought no charge against him for abusing his control.

Three weeks and four days found them sitting in front of the fireplace in Watson’s rooms (they were so much neater than Holmes’ and he knew Watson found it easier to relax when things were tidy). Watson was in the midst of reading the paper, handing the pages to Holmes as he finished them. Only part of Holmes’ attention was on the paper, another part was concerned with the way the fire highlighted Watson’s cheekbones, still another on a work-in-progress of his – an attempt to create an undetectable counterfeit banknote (Watson, when he’d heard of this plan, had called it ‘exceptionally illegal,’ to which Holmes had replied that it was all in the interest of exposing counterfeits).

Even with the varied tasks, Holmes still noticed when Watson folded a page of the paper and set it to the side instead of giving it to Holmes. He looked straight ahead, expression suspiciously natural. It immediately piqued Holmes’ interest. He swiftly calculated the sheets in his lap; Watson had to be on the second to last page – poems and obituaries.

“Nothing interesting there, old boy?” 

There was a flash of fear in Watson’s eyes, but he quickly schooled himself into careful neutrality. Holmes met his gaze for a moment and then made a feint for the page – darting to his feet and reaching across Watson’s body to the end table. Watson reacted with estimable rapidity. Holmes couldn’t help his mouth twitching into a slight grin of admiration even as Watson snatched the page and held it away from him. Holmes went with his momentum, stretching as he tried to make up the distance of Watson’s arm. It sent him toppling onto Watson. They were both so committed to their conflicting goals that they tumbled to the floor with the struggle. Holmes was mindful of Watson’s injured leg all the while, and he could tell that Watson was holding back – reticent to cause real harm. Still, it was quite a tussle. Holmes’ shirtsleeve came too close to the hearth for comfort a couple times.

The page, by this time, was crumpled into a ball in Watson’s fist. Holmes was engaged in trying to pry Watson’s fingers loose while Watson attempted to buck Holmes off of him.

“It is nothing,” Watson insisted through gritted teeth.

“Then you should have no objection to my seeing it,” Holmes responded, punctuating every few words with a grunt of physical effort.

Watson tilted his chin up with a look of defiance and then twisted with a considerable show of strength to turn towards the fireplace and then threw the paper into the flames. Holmes watched the paper curl as it burned, still pinning Watson to the floor. The relative lightheartedness of their scrap was replaced by sheer annoyance; it was just _madness_ on Watson’s part to think that Holmes couldn’t (that he _wouldn’t_ ) go find another copy of the same paper. Watson was a clever man, but not clever enough to rip that page out of every edition in London before Holmes could get his hands on one.

Though Holmes had to admit that Watson was being nicely accepting of having Holmes atop him, he further did himself in by huffing, “Why must you provoke me, Holmes?”

It was Watson’s discourtesy, therefore, that inspired Holmes next act (oh, Holmes was going to _show_ him provocation).

“Over the chair, Watson,” Holmes ordered as he rolled off of the doctor. Watson started to follow the direction – he’d gotten one foot under him, the other leg bent with his knee on the floor before he paused. Holmes, however, was not planning on giving him the opportunity to shilly-shally. His goal in this endeavor was not humiliation; he was, after all, only giving Watson what he seemed to be asking for each time being subject to Holmes’ will aroused his excitement.

“Come now, Watson, assume the position.” His voice was the practiced tone of dominance, although he couldn’t help his lips curving into a slightly devilish smile, really quite pleased with himself.

Watson automatically stood and practically lurched forward, catching himself on his chair’s armrests and then bent at the waist. Holmes could hear very well the way Watson was trying – and failing to regulate his breathing. 

“Ten ought to do it, I think,” Holmes mused as he came to stand behind Watson, keeping his stance loose and casual. He let the anticipation of the first blow build, murmuring “Steady,” to Watson twice before he finally landed a slap to Watson’s rear.

With each firm smack to his backside, Watson shuddered forward, but also – and more interestingly – he pushed back to meet Holmes’ hand. A particular sense of triumph struck Holmes. The success of this venture had been a possibility in his mind, but Watson’s keenness was even better than he could have hoped. What fortune that Watson enjoyed the chastisement just as Holmes quite enjoyed administering it. He would have liked to see the lovely red hue he was bringing to Watson’s flesh, but the pleasure of his hand against the curve of Watson’s arse would suffice.

After the spanking was complete, Watson exhaled – long and shaky, and then reached to adjust his trousers. His arousal was apparent. Holmes was already planning his next scheme – on what, exactly, should be the next step of escalation, when Watson rendered it all null and void by standing up, turning, taking Holmes’ face in his hands and then kissing him fiercely.

Holmes was quite happy to hand the lead over to Watson, especially when Watson was doing such an irreproachable job of it – bold, but practiced – darting flicks of his tongue turned into long slides against the roof of Holmes’ mouth. His hands slid down, stroking along Holmes’ neck, then his clavicle and chest. Holmes, in turn, took hold of Watson’s hips and tugged him closer.

He would have been quite content to continue kissing (he suspected there were still some molars he hadn’t properly documented), but Watson pulled away, bit softly at Holmes’ bottom lip and then said – frustration and affection both quite evident, “Holmes, you incorrigible tease.”

“I had no idea you would have such a _reaction_ to corporal punishment,” Holmes grinned in return. That was, of course, a lie – Holmes had had at least a slight inkling based upon all his observations to date. He wondered if the military was aware of all the creative uses for its training, but bit his tongue before asking Watson the (admittedly rhetorical) question for fear of arousing his ire.

Giving Watson a rakish smirk, Holmes ran his hand down the length of Watson’s spine and then lower – Watson’s gasp was immensely satisfying (it could not be soreness – Holmes was really not all that hard on him – so it spoke to a far more lustful response), as was the way he ground his hips forward. Holmes gave his arse another slap, which caused a sharp noise to issue from Watson’s throat and a thrust from the erection Holmes could feel through Watson’s trousers.

In the absence of any protests, Holmes slid his hands to the fastenings of said trousers in order to get to said erection. Watson (who Holmes really could not praise enough for his cleverness) quickly reciprocated, even proving himself more dexterous than Holmes at this sort of thing when he managed to curl his fingers around Holmes’ cock before Holmes had succeeded at pulling Watson’s underclothes down (though to Holmes’ credit he didn’t abandon his task in the face of such stimulation, even if it did add a few more seconds to completion time).

Their forearms were pressed together, knuckles bumping as they touched each other. Watson’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbow which allowed Holmes to admire the way the veins stood out in Watson’s arm as he flexed and tugged at Holmes’ cock. Watson’s fingers were callused and remarkably confident on Holmes’s flesh. Holmes’ strategy was to try and replicate Watson’s technique. Perhaps when his head was clearer, he thought, he might try being more inventive. At the moment, it seemed to suit his purposes quite well; Watson was arching into Holmes’ grip, sweat beading on his forehead. Holmes put his free hand to Watson’s neck to feel his pulse, quick as a hare’s, against his fingertips. Watson pressed into the touch and then swayed forward to kiss him again, far more sloppily than before.

With a soft groan, Watson paused in his ministrations and brushed Holmes’ hand away. “Wait,” he breathed, “wait, just let me - ”

Holmes was not entirely sure what Watson was after, but he placed the hand that Watson had shrugged off on Watson’s shoulder and bent his head to watch as Watson reapplied himself to his undertaking – his fist jacking quite quickly up and down the length of Holmes’ shaft. Holmes could not help but knead at the fabric of Watson’s shirt with each twist of Watson’s wrist (Watson, he was sure, was going to be _horrified_ at the resulting wrinkles).

“Slowly,” Holmes murmured; it wasn’t really a command, undermined by the waver in Holmes’ voice. Watson still complied with the request. Holmes was entranced by the sight of Watson’s hand on his cock – and by Watson’s own erection jutting up against it. Holmes tore his gaze away only once and only to see where Watson’s eyes were focused, which turned out to be on the same spectacle – an expression of extreme absorption and hunger on his face.

Watson stopped again, but only to lick his palm, tongue lingering between the curve of his middle and ring fingers as if he actually _enjoyed_ the taste that Holmes left on his skin. When he took Holmes in hand again, his thumb playing around the glans, Holmes very quickly found his release, spilling onto Watson’s fist.

He was eager to return the favour, but even as he tried to give Watson the same pleasure, Watson held himself back – tenseness coiled in his muscles and he bit down harshly on his bottom lip. His eyes gone glassy and his chest shuddering with each breath, he finally elucidated – “Tell me,” he pleaded. “ _Tell_ me.”

Instantly comprehending (though he could not help but feel it was quite the oversight that he’d needed the explanation), Holmes pressed his mouth to Watson’s ear – flushed red and feeling fever-warm - and hissed, “Now. Finish _now_.” And, just like that, Watson came with a strangled groan, his fingers carding through Holmes’ hair to pull him up into a final kiss.

It was Watson who stepped out of the embrace first. He took out a handkerchief and wiped himself off and then offered it to Holmes to do the same as he pulled up and refastened his trousers. When he was done with it, Holmes tried to tuck it into Watson’s breast pocket only to have Watson laugh scoffingly and toss the scrap of cloth into the fire.

“I hope you don’t intend on stealing one of my handkerchiefs after so wantonly disposing of a perfectly good one,” Holmes said in mock indignation.

“That was yours,” Watson replied archly. He clasped Holmes’ shoulder briefly and then went to inform Mrs. Hudson they were ready to take tea.

The interlude, as pleasurable as it had been, did not distract Holmes from the mystery at hand. The next morning he paid a visit to the butcher shop around the corner, which always received a stock of the editions that hadn’t sold. Even knowing, as he surely must, that Holmes would most likely pursue the issue, Watson had made no further attempts to dissuade him following their scuffle – presumably reconciled to Holmes’ persistence when it came to uncovering secrets.

Once Holmes had managed to ferret out the page in question, it was immediately obvious what had so affected Watson the previous night – a brief obituary for Peter Kingsley. Though there was no picture, Holmes recognized the name as that of the man he had identified in Watson’s photograph some time ago. In the typical style of the paper it harped on the most salacious details – Kingsley had been robbed and murdered, his body found in an alley in the East End that Holmes knew to be next to a brothel that catered to men looking for the company of rent boys (it was merely part of Holmes’ business to be familiar with the underbelly of his fair city). Only at the end of the short notice was Kingsley identified as a veteran of the Afghan Wars, but no mention was made of his discharge.

Holmes’ mind was quite capable of painting a number of lurid pictures of Watson and this Kingsley fellow entwined together in ecstasy. He was sorry, of course, to hear of the man meeting such an unfortunate end, but the more prominent reaction was a flare of something in his chest – yes, it had to be jealousy, as irrational as that was. The affair, whatever it had entailed, must have taken place years ago, during their time in the army. Then again, Holmes could hardly account for every minute of Watson’s time since they had become acquainted; it was conceivable that Watson had been indulging in liaisons with other men, perhaps even frequenting the same brothels – slightly fantastic - _his_ staid Watson, - but still conceivable, given the available facts.

He returned home, gripped by an unfamiliar feeling of possessiveness towards his companion, both irritated that he should be under the control of such carnality and consumed by the possibilities of demonstrating his claim upon his friend in equal measure.

Luckily, Watson was just seeing off a patient when Holmes came through the door. As soon as the interloper was gone, Holmes steepled his fingers and gave Watson an appraising look. “I wonder, my dear Watson,” he said, “if you would mind assisting me with a matter of great import in the bedroom?” The proposition was rather forward, but Holmes felt an extra assurance now, the sure knowledge that Watson wanted to be intimate with him.

Watson’s lips thinned as he tried to hide a smile. “By all means,” he said, waving his arm to motion that Holmes should lead the way.

Holmes had already thoroughly premeditated his plans for Watson and so wasted no time once they were sequestered in ordering Watson to disrobe. His jacket was immediately discarded, followed by his waistcoat. After that, though, Watson paused. He was such a fine, upstanding citizen, and thus was rather diligent in protecting his modesty. Holmes had anticipated this as a possible hurdle. He was delighted, however, when Watson tipped his chin up with an expression of determination, responding as he might to a goading dare, and then quickly finished stripping. Holmes gave himself a moment to admire the body that was bared to him, just until the attention had begun to disquiet his friend, and then told Watson to get on the bed on his back and put his hands on the headboard.

He marveled again at the visceral reaction it caused in Watson to be issued an order. There was no doubt, no hesitance in his actions as he arranged himself as per Holmes’ wishes. Still fully dressed, Holmes crawled onto the mattress to crouch on his hands and knees over Watson’s outstretched legs. He touched the muscles in Watson’s arms – slightly tense with the position of being bent above his head. He touched the hair under his arms and then the hair on his chest and then ran his hands down Watson’s sides, just mapping Watson’s skin – letting his fingers trail over his ribs and then below his navel, down to the crease of groin and thigh.

“Holmes,” Watson breathed, his voice sounding uncertain. Holmes’ eyes flickered up to assess what was to be read on Watson’s face. There was a handsome flush to his cheeks, and he licked his lips self-consciously when he felt Holmes’ gaze. Holmes could only assume that it was being the object of such concentration that was making him uncomfortable. Holmes knelt up and put his hands on Watson’s shoulders, stroking the side of his neck with his thumb and, leaning in, he kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and then the bridge of his nose. He could feel the thud of Watson’s heart beneath his touch; the cadence spoke more to excitement than to alarm, so Holmes continued, brushing their lips together as he reached down to stroke Watson’s cock. Watson strained against his grip on the headboard to push into Holmes’ fist. The feel of his cock swelling with arousal against his palm gave Holmes a very singular sense of accomplishment.

Much time was given over to exploration – Holmes traced the dorsal vein and then the underside of Watson’s erection, ringing his fingers around the base before moving back, one hand teasing Watson’s scrotum while the other gently pressed against his perineum. The caresses were meant more to facilitate familiarity than Watson’s pleasure, though he seemed to be enjoying them well enough. Holmes ran his nails down Watson’s inner thighs with light pressure, and then pushed his legs farther apart before taking hold of Watson’s cock again.

“You could let me do the same,” Watson offered. He’d been biting his bottom lip, Holmes noted; it was redder than usual. All in all, he looked quite tempting like this, but Holmes did not like to deviate from his plans unless completely necessary.

“No, I think not,” Holmes said decisively Cocking his head as if the idea had just occurred to him (it had not, but rather far earlier), Holmes tapped two fingers against Watson’s hip and said, “I don’t want to hear another word out of you either.” Watson made a sharp, startled noise that might have been a laugh. “Consider this a test, my good man,” Holmes smirked as he fitted his hands around Watson’s hipbones, intention obvious. “Let us see how silent you can remain.”

A clipped groan escaped Watson as Holmes took him in his mouth before he reined himself in. This was a first foray for Holmes and he enjoyed (excepting the ache that started in his jaw) the chance to put theory into practice. He enjoyed, too, the taste and solidity of Watson in his mouth. Watson valiantly tried to stay quiet, but his hitching breath and the aborted noises that he bit back were a symphony in themselves, charting Watson’s escalating pleasure.

Impressively, Watson reached completion with little more than a shaky sigh. Holmes strained to take more of the shaft into his mouth and swallowed as the bitter liquid hit his tongue.

When he pulled away, Watson lay loose and sated beneath him – apart from his knuckles which were white with effort as he remained clutching the headboard. Holmes was looking for his cues this time, and so was quick to realize Watson was waiting for permission to put his hands down. 

The deference was intoxicating as well as inspiring. Though he was hard, Holmes did not feel the need to pursue immediate gratification; he wished to prolong things, to continue to investigate Watson’s boundaries. Hands on his body to help him (for the climax had left Watson rather clumsy), he had Watson reposition himself on Holmes’ bed – turned over and with his knees drawn up under him, backside on display.

Leaving him like that, Holmes retreated to the adjoining parlour to play the violin. Watson bore it patiently for nearly two hours (Holmes had at this point abandoned the violin in favour of fashioning a new false beard) before he started loudly complaining he had not the entire day to squander on indulging Holmes’ whims. 

Amused, Holmes decided that Watson had indeed earned his attention and stood to return to his patient and long-suffering friend. Watson was still very nicely in place, though he had pulled a pillow over to rest his head upon. He turned his face from the pillow to the side to watch as Holmes approached the bed. Holmes knelt on the floor so they were on eye-level with one another. “And it’s merely your commitment to your work that has you so anxious?” he asked. “No other discomfort?” He ghosted his fingers along Watson’s leg to make his meaning clear.

Watson’s mouth opened and closed once before he answered with a simple, “No, none really.”

“Excellent,” Holmes said, extraordinarily pleased. He clambered onto the bed again, kneeling behind Watson. Watson shuddered slightly at the contact of Holmes’ trousers against the backs of his thighs. When Holmes reached around to touch Watson’s cock, he found it again engorged. He could not quell a satisfied noise as it twitched in his hand, pre-ejaculate dripping onto his knuckles, and it was answered by a moan from Watson and a sudden thrust forward and then back.

Watson pushed forward again and Holmes followed this time, rubbing up against him. The sound Watson made at that was almost angry. It gave Holmes slight pause, a frisson of fear that he had somehow forced Watson too far, but Watson only hissed through clenched teeth, “You’ve kept me waiting long enough. Get _on_ with it.”

“Quite right,” Holmes muttered mostly to himself, “quite right indeed.” He undid his trousers and pushed them down just enough to pull his cock out and thrust against Watson’s proffered buttocks, grinding forward as he kept up his rhythm on Watson’s erection. It was only moments before Holmes had streaked Watson’s flesh with his seed, and only a moment longer than that before Watson stiffened and cried out with his orgasm.

Holmes slumped forward, resting his weight on Watson’s back before he realized Watson, after everything, was probably most uncomfortable. He slid over to stretch out next to Watson, who turned onto his side to look at him. His expression soft, Watson leaned forward and nudged their noses together and then kissed him, sweet but quick. Holmes twitched the blankets back, an unspoken invitation for Watson to stay (he could’ve made it a command, of course, but, at that juncture of time, it did not seem prudent). Watson shook his head and told him he really did have work to do. There was an odd, guilty note in his voice that caught Holmes’ ear. Perhaps aware of his slip, Watson kissed him again (it _was_ a fine technique for distraction, Holmes was willing to admit).

Watson collected his clothes and then disappeared into his rooms after that. Ruminating on his friend’s continued suspicious behaviour, Holmes waited in his own until he heard Watson’s steps in the hallway and then scurried out to meet him on the stairwell. Watson was dressed all in black, coat draped over his arm. He managed to look wary, vulnerable, and defiant all at once.

“Going out?” Holmes queried, his eyebrow quirked.

“I’m going to pay my respects to the family of a patient,” Watson said. Holmes wished him well and then let him go, not wanting Watson to be too suspicious.

Once Watson had departed, Holmes immediately donned a disguise (tawny beard, spectacles, false nose) and his own mourning-appropriate clothes (as well as a coat that would obscure his real physique), and then took hasty flight after his companion.

The chase ended at a house with black crape tied with white ribbon upon the door. It was not in an area of town that Holmes knew any of Watson’s patients to come from. He hung back as Watson entered the house and then lingered across the street until Watson reemerged (roughly half an hour). Though he had surmised who Watson was really mourning, Holmes could not resist the chance to confirm it with his own eyes.

His suspicions were borne out when he entered the house, following the attendant to the parlour where a casket was displayed in the middle of the room. There was black crape everywhere and the windows were covered. It was dim, but Holmes recognized the face of Peter Kingsley. He stood there over the body for a while, wondering about the details of this man’s life, wondering what exactly he had meant to Watson and what exactly Watson had lost with his death. Despite, or perhaps even because of the scandalous nature of Kingsley’s death, the room was crowded with family and guests, and no one paid Holmes any mind.

He left with his spirits quite low.

Back at Baker Street and with his costume removed, he found Watson similarly glum and listlessly going through notes in his office. He did not seem very surprised when Holmes invited himself into the room and sat across from him at the desk, only glancing up at him briefly before turning back to his papers. Holmes reached forward and touched the back of Watson’s hand, and was again struck by the conflicting emotions that stormed in Watson’s eyes – anger, this time, but also worry and a warmth that spoke to their powerful bond with one another.

“Watson,” Holmes started in normal tone of voice. The colour drained from Watson’s face. He looked resigned, like he had known this was coming, but it did not seem to lessen the dread. “Tell me about Peter Kingsley,” Holmes finished, careful to make it inquisitive, pitching his voice so that there is no question that this was a request and not a command.

Watson inhaled sharply and looked away. Holmes squeezed his hand – the only comfort he could think to give.

“He was a dear friend, at one point in my life,” Watson finally said, the words stilted. Holmes sat back in his chair and waited patiently for Watson to continue at his own pace. Watson haltingly pieced the story together, far from articulate, but Holmes could fill in the blanks himself. “We were young, careless, and a letter he wrote to me was intercepted.” He paused and gave Holmes a meaningful look to suggest the nature of the letter. “Neither of our names was on it, but someone attested that it was King’s handwriting.” Watson paused again, looking slightly embarrassed at his use of a sobriquet.

“I was afraid,” Watson confessed, “that he – that we would _both_ be imprisoned for life. I encouraged him to desert, but he was arrested and court martialed – dismissal with disgrace and ten years’ imprisonment. He never let my name come up in the proceedings, and I – I never spoke to him again. I wrote to him while he was in prison; I tried to apologize, as inadequate as that was, but he never responded. I knew I didn’t deserve his forgiveness.”

Holmes nodded his understanding but made no comment. They sat in silence for a long moment. With his secret unburdened, Watson suddenly looked exhausted. “It’s dangerous,” he said quietly. “What we do – it’s dangerous.” Holmes did not respond except to tell Watson in no certain terms to get some rest.

He spent the rest of the night locked in his rooms, mulling the matter over. He did not sleep.

At the breaking of dawn he let himself into Watson’s bedroom. Watson, despite Holmes’ earlier order was awake, sitting in his armchair with a glass of brandy. His eyes went wide upon Holmes’ entrance.

Holmes was shivering with manic energy, rumpled and only half-dressed. He was sure he looked like a madman (or, at least a little madder than usual). “I’d like to see you in your uniform,” Holmes said quickly. Watson stared at him, uncomprehending.

“ _Now_ ,” Holmes said with imperative intonation. Startled and jerky as a marionette, Watson got up and went to the wardrobe. He paused after he’d opened it. As clever as the trick was, Holmes was no sorcerer; it caused a gut reaction in Watson, but for more complex tasks, Watson had to consciously consent to completing them. He’d stayed nearly two hours on the bed, Holmes reminded himself – he would do this, too.

Holmes unabashedly watched Watson change. Watson stood facing away from him, but the stiffness of his movements let Holmes know he was aware of his audience. He turned when he was dressed, automatically standing at attention as if the uniform allowed him no other option.

He looked like all the columns of his character: good, strong, brave – but magnified tenfold. His spine was so straight, shoulders slightly back which showed off the broad strength of his chest. Holmes could very easily imagine him as a proud young soldier (himself, perhaps, as Watson’s commanding officer, or a spy that needed interrogating, though these were games that would have to be left for another time).

Holmes moved to stand behind him and smoothed his hands down Watson’s sides, then touched his shoulder under the pretense of fixing an imaginary flaw (Watson was not the kind of man who would wear his uniform any way but impeccably). Watson’s breathing had begun to go shaky; Holmes could sympathize – he was unsure of himself for once, pulse quickening with the uncertainty as he tread upon foreign ground.

Circling around to Watson’s front, Holmes touched the lapels, the brass buttons, and the belt of Watson’s uniform. Watson held his stance perfectly and kept his gaze straight ahead. Holmes’ chest seized very violently with a surge of affection for his beloved Watson. “Get on your knees,” Holmes whispered. The rapidity with which Watson obeyed and the way his knees hit the floor caused him a flash of concern, but Watson did not look pained. Holmes stroked Watson’s cheek and Watson neglected his posture in order to turn and take Holmes’ fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes and suckling wetly. He seemed grateful for the distraction. Diversion, however, was not Holmes’ intent and, with some reluctance, he pulled his hand free. Watson looked up at him, a little hazy, but also irritated. He plainly wished to retreat into submission, to not have to think of anything but following orders.

Fingers wound in Watson’s hair, Holmes tugged his head back to make sure Watson met his gaze. “It’s not a burden you have to bear,” he said. Watson’s face was blank for a second, and then his eyes fell to the floor, his expression one of distress. Holmes merely pulled him back again. He waited silently until Watson looked at him and then cupped Watson’s face in his free hand. “I am forgiving you. I am taking your fear. Do you understand?” Watson tried to speak, but he could not seem to form any words. Holmes rubbed his thumb against Watson’s bottom lip and said, “Do you understand?” a little more firmly. Watson gifted him with a tentative nod.

Holmes smiled tenderly. “Now, I’d like to see you naked again.” 

Watson was still shaky, though he accomplished this task in far less time than he’d taken to dress (though considering the time it took for him to methodically fold and put away his uniform it might have been equal). Holmes spread him out on his back on the bed and then undressed. Watson watched with his eyes burning bright and Holmes felt like preening at the attention. When he moved to cover Watson with his body, Watson instinctively stretched his arms above his head, but Holmes caught his wrists and drew first one then the other to his mouth, nipping very lightly at the pale skin. He released his grip and Watson curled one of his hands around the back of Holmes’ neck and kissed him hungrily.

“You’ve put this power in my hands and now it’s mine to take and mine to give. Do you understand?” Holmes breathed against Watson’s mouth when he pulled away. Watson stared at him searchingly for a moment and then smiled – not a broad grin, but a tiny, intimate thing, and then put his hands above his head again, intertwining his fingers. It was as eloquent an answer as Holmes could ever have asked for, and he pressed his lips to Watson’s and his hand to Watson’s chest above his heart to show his thanks.

Sliding down Watson’s body, Holmes reached over the side of the bed for a vial that was in his trouser pocket and then coated his fingers with oil that he had purloined from Watson’s medical supplies. He let Watson’s bad leg rest undisturbed on the mattress and hooked the other leg over his shoulder. Watson watched him with great interest and unquestioning trust. He stroked the cleft of Watson’s arse briefly before circling his finger around his entrance. Watson jerked upwards, his heel pushing against Holmes’ shoulder blade. This was another untested theory, but along with the power Watson had also given him a sense of confidence - that he knew what Watson needed and could grant it to him.

The first slide of his finger inside made Watson cough out a surprised, “ _Oh_.” Holmes went slow, carefully thrusting his finger in and out of the hot clench of Watson’s body, and then crooking it so Watson groaned and kicked at him like he was spurring on a horse. Holmes withdrew the finger so only the tip was still inside and then pressed his middle finger in along with the first. Watson trembled, shifting his hips back against the penetration. Holmes kept twisting his fingers, rubbing right where it got him the finest reaction – Watson whimpering and saying, “Please,” with his voice run ragged.

He added a third finger at the same moment that he touched Watson’s cock – already red with arousal. Watson made a desperate noise. His lips stayed parted, but he made no further noise. His eyes had gone glassy and his limbs were all taut with tension. Holmes could barely breathe himself looking at his fingers disappearing into Watson, feeling how he clenched around them. His grip on Watson’s erection was ruthless, inexorable. “Now,” Holmes said, “ _Now_ ,” and then beheld a gorgeous sight - Watson bared his teeth, his throat, his hips pushed upward with a kind of profound determination and he whined as if his release was being ripped right out of his body. 

Holmes kept his fingers inside Watson, still taking shallow thrusts until Watson’s cock softened and he quietly groaned, overwhelmed. Even after he’d slipped them free, he couldn’t stop toying with Watson’s body – massaging his come into his skin, nuzzling at the sweat that glistened on his sternum, and then sucking a bruise onto the side of his neck. 

His senses filled with Watson, he was almost oblivious to his own erection rutting against Watson’s hip, and was taken completely by surprise when Watson suddenly rolled over, trapping Holmes beneath him. Watson grinned down at him, looking thoroughly and delectably debauched. Holmes settled back against the blankets, a mirrored grin on his face. Watson was showing excellent initiative; Holmes was eager to see what he’d come up with. Watson was quite clever, quite resourceful; he was, after all, a military man.


End file.
